Chapter 8
519 Words
Mira stayed in her lane.
She woke up early, left the apartment before Kairo could say more than a few words, and came back late with excuses about studying.
The silence was her shield and it worked.
Mostly.
But Kairo had changed since that night with Dylan. He didn’t ask questions, not outright. But he was watching her. The kind of watching that felt like he was figuring something out in his head before saying it out loud.
She kept her head down.
At school, the buzz never stopped. Students walked fast, talked louder, and moved like their lives were moving somewhere fast and full.
Mira felt like a ghost walking between them.
She sat in the back during lectures now. Rachel still waved, still offered her half a protein bar or whispered jokes mid-class, but Mira barely responded. She didn’t want to be rude. But she didn’t want to be seen either.
Tyler passed by her once in the hallway. He didn’t say anything this time, just smirked.
That was worse.
On Thursday, she skipped lunch to sit in the library and search job listings. She had less than forty dollars left. Her scholarship covered tuition, books, and some utilities but not much else. Kairo never asked for rent, and she had no intention of offering. Not now.
But she needed something.
A night shift, maybe. Cleaning, dishwashing anything that didn’t need papers or too many questions.
“Looking for something?” a voice said behind her.
She turned fast.
Just a classmate. A girl from sociology, Brielle or something. Blonde hair, too much caffeine in her hand.
Mira gave a stiff smile. “Just… assignments.”
Brielle shrugged and walked off.
Mira exhaled. That was the third person this week who nearly saw her job tabs open.
Back at the apartment, Kairo was in the kitchen when she got home. Casual clothes. A mug of something that smelled like cinnamon.
“You always come in like you’re being chased,” he said quietly, not looking at her.
“I walk fast.”
“You live here,” he said. “You don’t have to run inside.”
She placed her bag by the wall. “I’m just tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
She looked at him.
He was watching her again. Not the staring kind. The silent, calculating kind. Like someone who grew up around lies and could tell when something didn’t line up.
She crossed her arms.
“Is there something you want to say?”
He shrugged. “No. You just move like someone waiting for the floor to drop.”
She bit her lip. “Maybe it already did.”
He nodded once and walked off, leaving her in the hallway.
That night, she opened her laptop again. She applied for four jobs anonymously
two night cleaners, one barista, and one call centre. She used a fake last name.
No phone number.
Just the burner email she created last month.
As she hit "send" on the last one, her fingers trembled.
She wasn’t scared of work.
She was scared of being seen.
- Writer
